


The Christmas Spirit

by winkingmagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:34:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3347162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winkingmagpie/pseuds/winkingmagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the first Christmas Jim shows a little spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> This was my Mormor 2014 Secret Santa gift for moripartyer. Just posting it here in case anyone's interested. Original Post: http://jimstayinalive.tumblr.com/post/105893656815/mormor-secret-santa-for-moripartyer

Jim passed by yet another shop with stupid fairy lights and cheap paper snowflakes adorning the windows. There is only a 6% probability of a white Christmas in London, Jim thought, and there’s only been seven official white Christmases in the entire UK in the 20th century. Making snowflake cut outs and sticking ice under your tongue and praying really,  _really_ hard didn’t increase any chances. Jim rolled his eyes and pulled his scarf closer to his chin.

Each shop in Piccadilly had Christmas carols leaking from their speakers, grating on Jim’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard. The sights of plastic Santas with cheerful smiles and bushy white beards, rosy cheeks and full bellies haunted his thoughts like a boogie man. There was too much noise. Too much hope. Too much cheer for any one man to handle. It was nauseating, yet Jim couldn’t stop himself from spying little things he knew his sniper would enjoy as a present.

As he walked by Barbour International, he slowed, and thought of how fond Sebastian was of the motorcycle Jim  _allowed_ him to have. There had been a lot of fighting about it, ending with Sebastian just buying one out of spite and Jim sulking for three days. It was a useless piece of junk – had just about as much usefulness as tinsel on a tree. There was the danger risk to consider (though Jim never considered that in front of Sebastian) and the fact that Sebastian would be completely exposed if there was an accident, or if he should drive by CCTVs. Sebastian said something about it being cool. Jim scoffed and waved his hand about as he usually did to signal the end of a conversation. It wasn’t that Jim didn’t  _have_  reasons for his point in the argument. He just couldn’t be bothered to explain them.

Jim stopped thinking about the motorcycle and exited the Barbour shop with nothing.

The Tiger of Sweden shop caught his eye. Jim gave a knowing smirk. He was fond of pet names: The Virgin, The Iceman, The Woman. His favorite was for his marksman: Tiger. It described Sebastian perfectly. The pink tissue scars across Moran’s chest and over his heart had been from shrapnel in an explosion during his service in Afghanistan. Jim first noticed the scars when he read through Sebastian’s file, pre-hire. He started the rumor it had been from a tigress, protecting her young as Sebastian beat it senseless with his massive hands and barred teeth. The rumor spread like wildfire much to Jim’s delight. Sebastian had been angry at the lie, saying his time in Afghanistan was more terrifying than arm wrestling a jungle rat. Jim had corrected his classification of the jungle  _cat_  to which Sebastian left scowling.

Sebastian seemed to enjoy the nickname over time, though, especially on the first night when Jim had worshipped those scars with his lips and tongue. Only one year ago had the name become one Jim referred Sebastian to in their more… _private_  moments, the ones where rumors couldn’t reach. The consulting criminal swallowed, setting down an orange scarf that had materialized in his hand without his knowledge. He left that store with nothing as well.

There were other stores, too, like Waterstones where Jim knew Sebastian would buy anything by George RR Martin. He passed Kahve Dunyasi where Sebastian would occasionally buy a coffee. Shoe stores and clothing departments and the holes in the wall none of the tourists dared to try. Jim slid in and out of them as though gliding on ice. Suddenly he found the noise around him less irritating, and the artificial greens and reds didn’t stand out so much as they did before.

Before reaching the underground, Jim paused one last time at a small tourist-like stand. There were the typical keychains of red coaches and telephone booths no one even used anymore, photoshopped photos of the Eye, Big Ben, and Buckingham Palace. On the back wall there hung a row of ball-chained necklaces. Jim scanned them quietly before taking out his wallet.

Jim boarded Piccadilly line twenty minutes later and stood silently as he rode the underground home.

***

“What’s this?” Sebastian arched a long, blonde eyebrow at the small package thrown unceremoniously his direction. Jim had aimed for his head. Sebastian caught it, like always.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s Christmastime again! I swear the day comes by faster and faster every year.” Jim responded sarcastically, mimicking those newscasters you see on television that talk about Christmas as if it’s the only news that matters in December.

“Never gotten me a present before, boss.”

Sebastian expected another retort, but was surprised by silence. He looked behind the back of his chair to see Jim disappear into the kitchen. Uncertain, the sniper looked down at the poorly wrapped gift in his hands. The present was wrapped in alarmingly red paper, but not around a box like most paper wrapping was used for. The thing was soft, but not pliable. Sebastian shook it and heard nothing. Sniffed it, but only smelled the stale scent of too much tape and printer ink. He glanced behind him again before sliding a finger under the paper slit.

Wrapped firmly in a Styrofoam sheet was a set of dog tags. His dog tags. No. Not his dog tags. They were in the old World War II style, with one green octagonal shaped disc and another red round disc. His surname was stamped on them, followed by his initials. Where Sebastian would have expected to see his old service number, it simply said “001.” On the forth line where religion would be specified, it read “Jim Moriarty.”

Before he could shout for Jim to explain, Sebastian glanced up to see his boss standing there with a cup of tea wrapped up in his hands and pressed against his lips. He looked passive, his brown eyes softly looking ahead of him towards the floor. Sebastian waited.

“Do you like them?”

“I don’t understand–”

“Do you like them, Sebastian?”

Sebastian glanced at the tags, lightweight and dull in his hand.

“Yeah, Jim.”

Jim nodded at his number one man before standing up properly. He turned to leave again, heading for his bedroom. Sebastian called out after him.

“Kind of selfish, you know, replacing Catholicism with yourself.” Sebastian had long since dropped his Irish Catholic origins, but the idea still amused him.

Jim smirked without turning his back.

“Takes the Christ out of Christmas now, doesn’t it?”

Sebastian gave an amused huff as he watched Jim close the bedroom door behind him. He wasn’t sure what mood his boss, partner, lover, newly deemed god was in right now. Jim had never gotten him a gift before. He refused letting Sebastian even turn on the radio for fear of hearing another horrendous holiday song. Looking down again Sebastian noticed a spidery scrawl written on the inside of the wrapping paper. Flattening the piece over his thigh, Sebastian read Jim’s little message:

“Merry Christmas, tiger.”


End file.
